Legacy of the Highlands (3 page)

She glanced at the man she’d been married to
for thirty-five years, her blue eyes hard as the cobalt they
resembled. The cold, deadly malice in her voice shook him.

“You’re a fool, John Cameron. My only comfort
is knowing that you will burn in the fires of hell for all eternity
and that your black soul and our angel son’s will never meet.”

Hours after Will Cameron’s murder, four men sat
around a scarred wooden table in a seedy Gloucester, Massachusetts,
bar that reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. No one in this
historic seaport at the tip of Cape Ann, north of Boston, would
take note of what seemed to be a group of fishermen out to hoist a
late-night beer or three. Their clothing and behavior were
unremarkable; their faces bore the weathered complexions of men
most at home on the sea.

“So, Jamie lad, is it done?” the oldest of
the four asked as he leaned across the table toward a tall, burly
young man a year or two out of his teens whose dark eyes flashed
like an excited child’s after braving a roller coaster for the
first time.

“It is, sir.” His pimply face flushed as he
made an effort not to smile. He was pleased with himself. After
months of training, planning, waiting and several missed
opportunities, he’d completed the task and earned the respect of
his accomplices. His mind, relieved of anxiety, wandered. At first
he thought it odd that the stunning relief he’d felt as he watched
the life drain from Will Cameron’s body reminded him of the release
of orgasm. But then he’d remembered the phrase taught to him by the
French whore who’d ended his innocence,
le petit mort
— the
mindless limbo at the moment of sexual release — and he
understood.

“Well then, that’s good.” The older man’s
slow and deliberate words yanked Jamie back to the present. The
man’s speech was laced with a slight accent — Irish? Scots?
English? Or something else?

“And the camera? You remembered to use it
lad? You weren’t tempted to take some of his valuables as a
souvenir, were you? This must not look like some ordinary robbery,”
one of the other men whispered in a voice made hoarse by years of
smoke. He nervously stubbed out another cigarette in the overloaded
ashtray.

“I did as I was instructed,” Jamie said
through clenched teeth as he shoved his empty beer bottle into
those crowding the middle of the table with enough force to topple
half of them. “As for the camera, see for yourselves.” He removed a
tiny digital camera from his pocket and slid it across the
table.

Business concluded, the men relaxed and
clinked their bottles in a final toast to a job well done. They’d
be paid handsomely for helping this young man lose his virginity,
in a manner of speaking. The gory photos of Will Cameron lying in a
pool of blood provided all the proof the others would demand. They
lingered for a few minutes more, chatting quietly, before setting
out into the inky darkness to disperse like wraiths into the chill,
foggy night. To anyone watching, it would seem that they were
headed for their individual homes and their beds.

The older man’s footsteps echoed as he made his way
from the bar toward the end of a nearby deserted wharf, satisfied
that from there he’d be able to see or hear anyone approach. He
stuck his hand in his pocket once more to reassure himself that the
camera’s proof of Jamie’s success was still there. Then he flipped
open his cell phone. He hoped that the pea-soup fog that rendered
him virtually invisible wouldn’t distort the phone’s signal. When
the connection was made to another phone a continent away, he let
out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Tell me,” said the faraway voice. It was a
command, not a request.

“’Tis done, and done well.” He’d never
doubted that they would be successful. Betrayal always came with a
price, after all, and John Cameron’s treachery carried with it a
sentence of death. Not his, mind, but that of his blood so that his
time on earth would be a living hell. First his son, and then…

“And the woman? What of her?” the far-off
voice interrupted the man’s momentary reverie. “Cameron’s
punishment is to see the death of his line. If this son of his
planted his seed before you got to him, the woman must die
too.”

“Agreed, but we have to be sure she is with
child before we act. We don’t want more blood, especially a
woman’s, on our...” He didn’t complete the sentence. “Someone’s
coming,” he muttered as his heart began to pound. He quickly
stuffed the phone in the pocket of his yellow slicker and wrapped
his damp fingers around the handle of a razor-sharp dagger. He
pasted the merry expression of the truly drunk on his face and
staggered toward the sound of approaching footsteps, his path
illuminated by the beam of a flashlight that blinded him as it was
raised to his face.

“Evening,” said a uniformed cop. “Not exactly
a great night for a stroll, eh?”

“Good evening to you, officer. Ah, Christ, I
had a bit too much and wanted to walk it off before heading home.”
He slurred his words and smiled engagingly, showing teeth that
would make a dentist grimace. “Wouldn’t want the old lady to take a
frying pan to me head now, would I?”

“Ah,” said the officer with understanding as
he returned the smile. “No, we wouldn’t want that. Can I give you a
lift?” The bars wouldn’t close for an hour yet and the area around
the docks was quiet. He didn’t want the man to topple into the
frigid water or be tempted to get behind the wheel of a car.

“That’s kind of you officer, but there’s no
need. It’s an easy walk.” He wished that the cop would stop
blathering and leave him alone. Why do Americans have to be so damn
friendly, he thought with disgust, as he struggled to maintain a
foolish grin when he really wanted to snarl. Was he going to have
to kill this cop who seemed to be memorizing his features? It would
be easy enough to slash the whoreson’s throat, but such an act
would bring on a world of troubles. Besides, he was certain that a
dim-witted, small town cop in Gloucester would never connect a
boozed up fisherman to a murder in Boston.

“Well, take it easy on the drink,” the cop
finally responded. “I hope your wife doesn’t give you too much
trouble.”

“It won’t be the first time. And a good night
to you, sir,” he said and began to walk back toward the town. As he
increased the distance between himself and the law, he gradually
relaxed his grip on the knife.

The day of Will Cameron’s funeral should have been
bleak, complete with lightning, thunder and howling wind, but it
was one of those impossibly brilliant, early spring days that are
greeted with joy after a long, dreary New England winter. The
bright sun, however, provided little warmth and Alex shivered, as
much from frayed nerves as the air’s chill. She shaded her eyes to
gaze with disgust at the news helicopter that whirred overhead.
They were like buzzards circling a carcass, but she knew that the
media loves tragedy, especially when it involves high-profile
pillars of Boston society like the Camerons.

Will’s flower-covered mahogany coffin rested
above the grave after its slow trip in the hearse from church. As
it was lowered into the ground, Alex had a clear vision of her
heart being ripped from her chest. She felt the urge to scream at
the top of her lungs, but stifled the impulse by focusing on the
aching finger she was deliberately strangling with her rosary
beads.

Francie’s husband kept his arm wrapped around
Alex’s waist as if he expected her body to slump to the ground. She
was oblivious to the sea of black-clad friends, family, colleagues
and curiosity seekers who crowded around the grave until she
noticed the strikingly handsome man standing some distance from the
throng. Diego Navarro. He was dressed in perfectly tailored black,
his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his body somehow tightly coiled
and lithe at the same time. He has some nerve to show up here, Alex
thought, as he raised one finger to lower the dark-tinted barrier
between them and her eyes met his for an instant.

The gaze of the man who had once been Will’s dearest
friend never strayed from the young widow. He’d expected Alex to be
devastated, but her pallor and weight loss alarmed him. Every
protective instinct he had prodded him to pull her into his arms
and shield her from further hurt, but he knew that was impossible.
After his fight with Will, they’d severed all ties to each other
except for a few business interests. That was why Will had been
examining the plans for Diego’s latest project the day of his
death. He wasn’t even sure if he should be here now, but how could
he stay away? Will was his brother. And Alex? He’d acknowledged
long ago that his feelings for her had never been brotherly.

“Did you see Diego? He’s over there,” Alex
whispered to Francie as she tilted her head in his direction.

“My fault. I thought you would want him
here…for old time’s sake, so I called him. He’s pretty broken
up…”

“I can see that,” Alex murmured, then turned
her attention back to Will’s open grave as the priest intoned, “Oh
God, we commend to you the soul of your servant William Matthew
Cameron, that he be received by your holy angels in Paradise and
have joy everlasting through Christ our Lord. Amen.” A final
sprinkle of holy water and it was over. Alex bent to pick up a
handful of loose earth and held it tightly for a few moments then
brought it to her lips before tossing it into the deep hole where
Will would rest for eternity.

“My child,” the priest began as he walked
toward her, his outstretched hands pale and trembling, milky blue
eyes gentle with concern, but she turned her back to him and walked
away. She had nothing to say to the priest. Why should she be on
good terms with the God he represented, a cruel deity who’d
abruptly snatched Will away from his future, their future? She
didn’t want to hear that it was God’s will or that her husband had
gone home to be with Jesus. Bullshit! It was all bullshit. They
could all go to hell and take their greedy God with them. She had
no use for Him. He’d taken her parents and now Will. She felt
abandoned, alone and very afraid.

Anne and John Cameron were stunned by their
daughter-in-law’s snub of the family priest and quickly placed
themselves between her and Father Scanlon. “Screw them,” Alex
whispered to Francie and David as she glared at the senior
Camerons. “ I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore, especially
those two uptight people. They have as little use for me as I do
for them.” Over the years they’d made Alex very aware that they’d
expected Will to marry some slack-jawed, prep-schooled debutante,
not the daughter of an electrician. It was a relief that she
wouldn’t have to try to win their affection ever again.

Although their grief should have matched or
exceeded hers, Alex saw no outward sign of it. Not a hair was out
of place on the blonde head that Anne Cameron leaned toward the
priest. Her eyes were dry, of course. Tears would ruin her perfect
makeup. The only crack in Anne’s serene façade was the chalk-white
color of the elegant fingers that held her Chanel bag in a death
grip. Will’s father stood straight and silent beside her, his
strongly boned face tanned as always, his expression vacant. His
black hair was stippled with white near the temples, which only
enhanced his good looks. He glanced toward Alex and allowed her to
see a fleeting glimmer of excruciating pain in the gold-flecked
hazel eyes that were so like Will’s before he abruptly looked away.
Alex watched him reach for his wife’s hand, but Anne pushed his arm
away and put more distance between them.

If the loss of their child didn’t bring them
together nothing would, Alex realized, but their behavior wasn’t
that surprising. The Camerons were going through all the right
motions, but seemed as devoid of emotion as ever. She’d never been
able to figure out how the loveless coupling of these two cold
people had resulted in a warm, passionate man like Will.

Alex mechanically accepted condolences as she
walked with Francie and David toward the limo waiting to take them
to the Cameron’s Beacon Hill townhouse for a reception. “Can you
and David find another ride? I need some space to pull myself
together.” She lifted her sunglasses and saw that the sister she’d
never had, the woman who hadn’t left her side for a week, was
already shaking her head no. “Absolutely not,” Francie said. “It’s
a bad idea for you to be alone…at least not yet. Look, Alex, it’s a
big car. David and I will sit up front with the driver if you want
privacy in the back.”

“Francesca,” Alex began, deliberately using
the form of her friend’s name that meant something serious was
about to be said. “You’ve been the best and I love you for staying
glued to me this week, but you’ve got to back off. I need to prove
something to myself. Please,” she implored. “It’s only a ten minute
ride, a baby step. Let me do this.”

Francie finally nodded and hugged Alex as if
to transfuse her with some of her own strength. Alex’s eyes scanned
the crowd for Diego, and when she didn’t spot him she assumed he’d
already left. She thought it was odd that he hadn’t spoken to her,
but at least he thought it important enough to be there. David
helped her into the car and shut the door with a solid thunk.

“We’ll see you at the Camerons’ house,”
Francie shouted and waved as the limo pulled away. Alex wasn’t sure
of much at that point, but she’d explode if she had to play the
well-mannered, grieving widow much longer. How was she supposed to
make small talk with people she didn’t even know as they ate their
way through the food and drink the Camerons’ cook had prepared?
She’d been to enough bereavement receptions to know that she was
headed to a party, not a somber gathering to mourn the burial of a
loved one.